Grand Theft Auto Unwritten Myths
by THE Brandon Brownson
Summary: A set of short stories based on the myths and legends of the GTA world. Rated M for Serial Killing, Sexual Themes, Drugs, Booze and other stuff not safe for the kiddies


AUTHORS NOTE: Alright, the first thing I want to say is that this isn't going to be one solid story. It's going to be a collection of short stories with at least one of them being split into multiple parts. That said, there's a collection of myths and legends floating around in the Grand Theft Auto world. Bigfoot, Rat Man, UFO's, The Suicidal Photographer… it seems as if every time I decide to look them up, there's at least a hand full of new GTA myths. Well, there's a wealth of potential for different short stories in these myths, so I'm going to take advantage of some of them. Some of my information might not be 100 percent accurate with the myths, but any changes will be made to make them flow better as stories. Oh, right, also, it is worth noting that I don't own blah blah blah no copy right infringement is intended yada yada yada you all know the deal.

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April 14th, 1992

I can't keep going without documenting any of this. Every waking moment, everything I do, every time I lay my head on the pillow, I'm constantly reminded of the things I have done, the people I've done them to… it's driving me insane. I got this note book so I can document what I've done, in hopes that it won't haunt me like it has for so long.

I guess I should start off with the basics. My name is Chuck Osborne. I'm 33 years old. I live in a small house in Tierra Robada. People around town know me as "Mr. Trench coat" because of the black trench coat I wear. I work at the local Cluck N' Bell as a manager, and I've been there for the past 13 years. But none of this is why I'm writing right now. The reason I'm writing in this note book is because for the past 10 years, I've been leading a double life. The papers call me "The San Andreas Slaughterer". The police have a task force dedicated to finding me. I am a serial killer.

I… I can't explain why I do it. I often contemplate stopping, think about going clean, maybe moving away so I can leave all of this behind me. Yet, I… I can't. I have this uncontrollable urge to end the lives of others, and with every kill, I have to get more and more violent. It used to be as easy as put a bullet in their skull and dump the body, but that doesn't crave the urge anymore. Then I moved on to using knives, baseball bats, things that required me to get more up close and personal… but that does nothing. It's been four months since my last kill, and I haven't felt the urge to kill again until two weeks ago. Since then, the craving has been growing stronger and stronger. I'm barely able to focus at work anymore. I've tried drinking, I've tried sniffing coke, I've tried doing anything else to curve my appetite, but it's not working. Maybe writing will help… reminiscing on my old victims… I get Goosebumps just thinking about it…

I'll start from the beginning. My hobby didn't start off as what it is now, and I swear I can explain it. I was 23 years old. I just got promoted to assistant manager at the Cluck N' Bell and living in East Los Santos with my girlfriend at the time. Ah, Lindsay Herbert… a name I will never forget. She was a cute little Asian girl, about two years younger than me. Tiny waist, but she had the ass of a goddess. Don't get me wrong, things weren't perfect between us, we'd been fighting a little bit, but I was happy with her… simply ecstatic! Fuck, man, I was going to propose to her that week! But she had to fuck everything up… sorry, I'm getting a little emotional. It was the night that I got the promotion; I got off work about an hour earlier than I usually do. I pulled up to the apartment that Lindsay and I were living in at the time, driving my piece of shit Greenwood. There was a car I didn't notice parked in my spot, a pale pink Glendale, but I didn't think anything of it… not until I got in the apartment and I heard them. They were fucking… in MY bed! My Lindsay, who I was going to propose to when we went out over the weekend… in there with some grease ball spic, I was pissed, I was hurt, I… I… I lost my mind. There was a gun in the kitchen, a simple 9mm with a homemade silencer on it. I kept it around because the neighborhood that we lived in was always rough, but I never thought I'd end up using it… especially not on her. But I was upset, you know? I mean, what would you have done if you came home to hear the love of your life fucking some random guy? So I went in the bedroom… she was on top of him, riding him in reverse cowgirl so I got to look right in her eyes… see her breasts glistening with sweat one last time… and I shot her. I shot her in the stomach. She slumped over, falling off the bed and landing on her face, and I got to look at the filthy spic. He begged for his life in a mix of English and Spanish, but I didn't care to listen. I walked up to him and shot him twice in the head. That's when I heard her crying. I almost felt remorse, almost left her alive, but I saw that he still had a fucking erection. He was sitting there, completely dead, yet his dick was still up! Like it was mocking me, just sitting there, fully erect, her pussy juice still shimmering. I punched the lamp that was on right off the night stand before I turned to her, put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger, sending pieces of bone and brain matter spraying all over the floor, the wall… and I felt great! I felt exhilarated! Don't get me wrong, I was still hurt, still miserable, but I felt this amazing rush… fuck, my dick was harder in that moment than it had been in any of mine and Lindsay's day-long fuck fests. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened then… but my next full memory was me cleaning semen off of my stomach. To this day, I don't know if I fucked her corpse, if I jerked off… I don't know… but in that moment, I realized that I had to clean up the mess that I made. I grabbed a few trash bags and stuffed their bodies inside of them, spent about an hour mopping blood and brains off the floor and walls. I also knew that the mattress had to go… the sheets and blankets as well. It was about one in the morning, so thankfully nobody was awake to see me moving the bodies and the mattress to the car. I swear, I could barely stuff both bodies in the trunk, and the mattress was poking me in the back of the head for the entire drive. I stopped by the liquor store and picked up three cheap bottles of booze, shit I knew was going to light up like a Christmas tree, and I drove out to the woods.

I drove my car as far in as I could get, far enough so if anyone drove by, they wouldn't see me, and I threw the mattress and bodies in a pile. I grabbed the guys socks, which he was still wearing, and stuffed them in the bottles, making some Molotov cocktails out of them. I torched the bodies and the mattress, drinking a little bit of the booze I poured into an empty Sprunk can I had lying in my car. That was my first two kills. I didn't know that I was going to do it again… I never planned on it, I never wanted to. I mean, it felt great, but I didn't want to get myself in trouble… not to mention I felt like shit because of what she did to me… but, as I'm sure you could tell, that wasn't the last time…


End file.
